Wilson Never Faltered
by IWasSpock
Summary: Wilson is always there. Always picking House up off the ground, always putting others before himself. He's just...always the steady, healthy, stable presence. Until he isn't. TW for depression/self-harm
1. No Matter What

"Just sit. I'll clean it up," Wilson whispered. House was stretched out on the couch, half asleep and shivering with fever. Vomit covered the ground in front of him. He groaned. Wilson just shook his head and wiped it away with a wet cloth. He paused, putting a different cloth across House's head, feeling the heat.

Wilson got a bucket. He hunted down the anti-emetics hidden in the back of the sink cabinet. He changed the cloth on House's forehead. He took his temperature every hour. He shut the blinds and laid a light blanket across House's sleeping form. He sunk down against the fridge. He cradled his head in his hands and whimpered quietly against the building migraine.

"Wiiiiiilsooooooooon" House groaned from the other room. A knife twisted behind Wilson's eye at the noise. His stomach rolled, but he stood up. The room pitched left and he grabbed the counter. Black crept into his vision.

"I'm coming!" Wilson's voice was strong, calm, in control. Just like it always was. Nothing betrayed that he was doubled over in pain, barely standing against a counter. He pushed off, stumbling and lurching to the living room, where he drew himself up through the nausea and rounded the couch. "What?" Every word was like a needle.

"I'm thirsty."

"The water is right there." Wilson pointed to the bottle, sitting a foot from House's head on the coffee table.

"I'm sick. You can't expect me to care for myself!" House whined. It was a joke. Wilson knew, but it was undercut by the way his stomach was sitting in his throat. The water bottle slammed into House's hand.

"I'm not feeding it to you." Wilson turned to leave. He walked out of the living room back straight and stride even. As soon as he was out of sight he let himself lean on the wall and press his hands into his eyes. Hard, until that pain rivaled the pain in his head.

"Wiiiiiiiiiilsooooooon!" House called again. The noise was too much. Pain stabbed into Wilson's skull will suck force that he vomited on the spot, heaving for at least a minute and sliding to his knees, tears forming as each retch intensified the pain and dizziness. "Wiiiiiiiilsoooooon!" House yelled again. Wilson pressed his head into the wall, trying to dry the tears. The stench didn't help.

"Just a minute," he'd meant to shout back, but it came out as a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat, wincing. "Just a minute!" It came out right this time.

"I'm going to puke all over the carpet!"

"There's a bucket right there." Wilson knew he couldn't stand. He'd just vomit or pass out. But he stood anyway, falling hard against the wall and side-stepping his mess clumsily. He practically fell into the bathroom and hastily threw up the toilet seat before dry heaving into the bowl, nothing left to bring up. When it stopped, he grabbed a dampened washcloth, lurching back out into the hall and nearly face planting at least three times. God, everything hurt, and he couldn't see straight to boot. His perpetual vision had gone, along with his balance and concentration. He stopped just short of the living room. He steadied his breath to listen to House's whining. Even the hand wiping across his mouth sent waves of stabbing pain. Wilson felt like passing out.

But he didn't. He never did. He always rallied. Always stood up straight and picked House up out of whatever hole he'd fallen into. Wilson never faltered. No matter what.


	2. Not Where Other People Could See Him

The room smelled like alcohol mixed with noodles and sick. Wilson pressed his arm over his mouth and nose, breathing in the shallowest breaths he could.

 _The answering machine had beeped relentlessly, ignored by Wilson, who was staring blankly into the TV. Some shitty action movie was playing. Something Wilson usually hated, but he wasn't really seeing it. It was just a half-assed attempt to pull himself out of his own head. Maybe the screaming and explosions could counter the suffocating nothing in his head._

 _Logically, Wilson knew he needed help. He couldn't think of the last time he was really happy. Or maybe he didn't care enough to try. A strange sort of nothing had filled his mind instead. It was like watching himself from the outside, going through life but not really feeling it. He should hate it- the nothing- but he couldn't muster up the motivation to care. Just like he couldn't change his clothes or make the bed or cook food. Things he'd liked. Things that had made him feel good, put together now meant nothing._

 _But the damn machine kept beeping. Wilson grabbed, seized by the desire to break it, but he hit the voicemail button instead, ever the conscientious man._

 _"W... Wilson"_

 _The voice was slurred and weak, but it was House._

 _"I...I... I need...well, I need help" House slurred through the phone. He sounded drunk and... sad. The message ended. Wilson blinked. Guilt swept over him, the first real emotion in weeks. He got up, throwing his overcoat on top sweats and a stained t-shirt._

"House?" He called into the darkness. No answer. Shit. Wilson rushed over the couch, images of House passed out in a puddle of vomit, barely breathing, flashing behind his eyes. House was instead bent sideways across the couch, eyes closed and breathing regularly. He smelled violently of vomit and alcohol, and there was a bucket full of the former on the floor. "House!" Wilson shook the man. He looked around, a sort of detached confusion spreading through him. Whatever jolt of caring or guilt had dragged him here had faded back into the gray of nothing.

But Wilson shook House again. He knew he had to because he always did. He always picked House back up. This time was no different. At least that's what he told himself as his arms shake House into consciousness.

House had been drunk because it was the anniversary of his break up with Stacy. Wilson kicked himself mentally for not remembering. He should've. He was a shit friend for forgetting. Honestly, he didn't know why House even bothered with someone who couldn't even remember something so important.

So he sat with House all night, watching weird movies interspersed by random pornos. He watched as House ate instant ramen. Wilson wasn't much hungry himself. He put a hand on House's back when he choked up and listened silently to the rant he got for his trouble. He deserved it for forgetting. House finally fell asleep at 4am.

Confident that House would wander, hungover, into work around noon, Wilson shuffled out of the apartment and back to his own. He couldn't fall asleep. Or didn't care to. He turned the b-list action flick back on, letting the gunshots and explosions play the background music for his thoughts, which were mostly hitting himself for forgetting about Stacy.

Wilson looked at the Aspirin on the coffee table, left over from his last migraine. There was enough in there to kill him in under and hour. It wouldn't be so bad. At least he'd feel something for the first time in…how long?

But he didn't take them. He got up at 6:30, dressed, blow-dried his hair, pasted a smile beneath tired eyes, and dragged himself to work. He held his head up, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right moments.

No one knew there was anything wrong. No one would guess that there was anything wrong. After all, Wilson never faltered. Not where other people could see him.


End file.
